I don't believe in ghosts.
Or maybe,
I think,
I do.
I do not believe in ghosts
that reek of blood.
Of those who ebb
out of tv screens;
of those who slither in
each dream.
But I do believe,
and fret, perhaps,
those who come
unexpectedly.
And leave
- then leave -
every piece of them
in each piece of you.
Of those whose kisses
trail down your spine,
only to find each tingling,
gone.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
I don't believe in ghosts.
Or maybe,
I think,
I do.
I do not believe in ghosts
that reek of blood.
Of those who ebb
out of tv screens;
of those who slither in
each dream.
But I do believe,
and fret, perhaps,
those who come
unexpectedly.
And leave
- then leave -
every piece of them
in each piece of you.
Of those whose kisses
trail down your spine,
only to find each tingling,
gone.
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